In its place she found a growing fascination with his features; the line of his jaw, the cut of his nose, the almost languid slope of his eyes. She became absorbed by the crease at the corners of his mouth when he smiled, and the length of his lashes through which he looked when phrasing questions. She was particularly taken by the way he tilted his head ever so slightly as he listened to Falmeard’s excited words, even the way he circled the finger of one hand in the palm of the other when listening intently.
Suddenly, he was looking at her with an appraising eye, one suffused with soft allure that brought warmth to her cheeks and downcast her eyes, removing the distraction. It allowed her some clearer thought, and from it a reminder of duty. “My Lord Leadernac, if I may interrupt? I have need to advise you of two latecomers to our gathering.”
She couldn’t bring herself to lift her gaze as yet. “Our Master of Ceremonies and my brother have both been unavoidably delayed, I’m afraid, and so won’t be joining us until later.” She realised she’d no real idea when, or even if they ever would. “They hope to be with us in time for our meal this evening, and send their humble apologies for not being at your coming in.”
Had she been able to look him in the face she might have noticed his eyes, at mention of Nephril’s title, fleetingly dart towards Falmeard. What she couldn’t miss was the nonchalance in his reply. “I trust our discussions will have to wait then, which would seem to suggest we now have some unexpected time on our hands?”
Penolith was at pains to reassure him that they’d be most welcome as guests of the manse until the planned feast that evening, but his sanguine reply surprised her. “If it can’t be helped then there’s no point in crying over it.”
He leant forward and regarded her through those long lashes of his. “Opportunities for relaxing with such wonderful and captivating company as yourself are quite rare, and not to be sneezed at.” He finished with a rather disquieting smile, his eyes still fixed on hers. This time she couldn’t avoid them but wished she had, for her mind again proved hard to manage.
She was so thrown she quite missed what he meant when he said, “In fact, it is I who must thank you, my Lady and gentile host, for it would seem events have furnished that very plenty of time you referred to earlier.”
Falmeard seemed to understand, though. “Now, that would be a most enjoyable morning, Lady Penolith. Would you mind awfully if I showed Lord Leadernac a few of the sights?” She felt somehow disappointed, but could think of no reason why not, and so had to agree.
44 Cat Gut
The lowering grey clouds had lightened and thinned appreciably as they’d hurried up the flank of the mountain, heading west to meet the king’s army. The balmy breeze that helped their ascent and carried much of that cloud away did little to keep them cool, so Pettar’s doublet showed distinct signs of dampness. Even Nephril’s leaner frame had gained a moistening sheen.
It was turning out to be warm, so a forced march was the last thing they’d have wished for but was what they’d got. They’d no real idea how far ahead the army was for in the rush they hadn’t thought to ask the priest. From his condition, Pettar reckoned an hour at least.
Eastern Street rose gently up the contours of Mount Esnadac, towards the Lords Demesne, steadily climbing away from Uttagate. They had the Towers of the Four Seasons still high above them to their left but becoming steadily more prominent.
They then began to pass more and more people about their daily chores. The desolate and empty streets they’d become accustomed to slowly gave way to the odd gay shop front or workaday forge, mostly well maintained and largely thriving, their pavements stacked with all manner of produce.
Everybody they passed paused in their tasks to watch them hurry on by in their hast, before leisurely getting back to their unhurried business. The sight of two sweaty men in strange garb, both purposefully labouring up the hill, brought wry smiles and a growing number of children to swarm behind them.
Pettar was thankful for Dican reserve, no taunts or abuse being hurled their way as would have been the case in Bazarral, but the youngsters’ absolute silence did begin to feel ominous and unsettling. He was glad when they reached the edge of that district and once more came between desolate and rundown properties, through which the children were plainly loath to go.
They’d gained quite some height by then, and weren’t that far off the junction for the Royal Courts when Pettar suggested a short rest. They stepped from the street into a small yard surrounded by low stone walls upon which they then both sat, their legs dangling above an adjoining orchard. Across the heads of its gnarled apple trees, they looked back down to the distant rise of Scout Hill, already becoming lost in the sprawling expanse. Beyond it, the imposing gate still lay open to an empty Eastern Walk.
As they both got their breaths back, Pettar wiped away rivulets of sweat and looked towards the gates, then along the wall’s northern march to the Park of Forgiveness. There, within its overgrown and verdant spread, Lake Dica stretched out its placid water, peacefully reflecting the sky’s blue mantle. Pettar knew that beyond it, beyond the Great Wall at its northern side, the fast decaying Ambec Village still lay desolately empty.
The park’s long, narrow sweep seemed to point a finger westwards towards the neighbouring Lords Demesne, still hidden around the mountain’s mass. It starkly reminded Pettar of their purpose. “Do you know yet, Nephril, how you’ll meet with the king’s army?”
Nephril looked at him with an uncertain grin. “I know not, Pettar, not in detail. I am leaving mine actions to the dictates of fate and trusting to mine long knowledge of Dican nature, but what they will both prospect I do not as yet know.”
Just then, they both heard a distant sound coming from beyond the dilapidated building behind them and so sprang from the wall and rushed back to the street. They looked to the west, towards its source, and noticed a banner appear only a few hundred yards up the street, coming towards them from around its gentle curve.
It displayed the king’s emblem and was held aloft at an angle, so its bearer only shortly followed on, and behind whom the first of a growing rabble of men crowded the width of the street. The wall of them made for a formidable and frightening spectacle.
Pettar was uncertain but then saw Nephril stride out to the centre of the street. He stood impassively, facing the encroaching mass. Pettar raised his eyebrows and thought, ‘What the heck,’ before strolling out to join him. He placed himself slightly behind Nephril and waited, his heart pounding to match the volume of the approaching feet.
As Nephril had rightly guessed, the bearer of the banner was indeed Laixac, dressed in the finest of ceremonial military garb. He wore embossed armour below a sumptuously long and flowing cape, his head decoratively protected by a highly polished basinet, and about his hips, a gaudy sword belt held a huge scabbard, encrusted with gems. His hose-encased legs vanished into shiny black knee-length boots upon which spurs had been fitted, their tinkling music adding to the disunited footfall at his rear.
In stark contrast, the rabble wore everyday smocks, old tunics, worn jerkins and gabardines, and carried pitch forks, scythes and cudgels in place of lances, pikes and spears.
Their approach slowed despite Laixac’s determined pace, until they were many steps behind him as he neared Nephril. By the time Laixac was almost upon him, the rabble had already jostled to a shuffling halt. Pettar noticed that Laixac was panting hard, suffering the far from inconsequential weight of his ornate banner. His legs wavered slightly, as though near to giving out, and his head was heavily bowed.
His mind was certainly elsewhere, diverted no doubt by the strain of leadership, but it was probably the flow of sweat into his eyes that made him unaware of what lay so close before him. Pettar was convinced he’d end up running straight into Nephril and so called out, “Good day, Laixac. Enjoying a bit of a walk are we, along with some friends?”
Laixac started, swayed uncertainly as he fought the banner, and then stumbled to a halt
almost upon Nephril, who smiled disarmingly. “Thou art some way from the Royal Courts, mine lad, somewhat beyond thine usual haunts. Pray, to what end art thou abroad and upon this way?”
Laixac would dearly have loved to have wiped the sweat from his eyes but couldn’t. He’d no free hand, not without putting the banner down, for its weight demanded them both. So, he just blinked furiously at his mystery encounter. His rabble soon gave him an answer. “That’s Lord Nephril. I’m sure of it. It is, you know, I’ve seen him before.”
Laixac tensed and staggered back a pace, then seemed to find some much needed strength, but only for a moment, only until the banner was again caught by a gust of wind and left him with a fight on his hands.
Whilst so occupied, Pettar moved nearer. “Perhaps I could assist you with your burden. Would you like me to hold it for you, whilst you mop your face?”
At that, Laixac found his voice and almost screamed, “Keep your filthy hands off! This is the king’s banner and I’m not about to let it fall into anyone’s hands, especially not your treacherous mitts, Nephril.” Pettar just laughed. “Ah, so it’s the Galgaverran traitor Pettar is it? Well, the same applies to you … but more so.” In desperation, he let the banner slip through his hands so its shaft thumped heavily to the ground, and then wiped his eyes.
All this while, Nephril had been trying to fathom out something quite odd about it all. He’d expected someone of the Court to be captain of the King’s Army, someone like Baron Stormangal perhaps, although it may have been a bit too much for him, but then again, maybe Lord Que’Devit. It was all very odd indeed, for Nephril was now sure it was only Laixac in command. “Ah! So it’s both traitors is it?” Laixac now affirmed. “Well, I’ve a few debts to settle with you two and now seems as good a time as any.”
He turned haughtily towards the rabble, as though to demonstrate his might, and gulped when he realised how they were all cowering back before Nephril. They even seemed to be slowly edging their way further back, as best they could against the press of those behind.
When Laixac turned back, he found himself staring but inches from Pettar’s dour face. “So! You think the time’s ripe to teach us a lesson, eh, or to box our ears perhaps, hmm?”
Laixac’s hand shot to the hilt of his sword but the moment was diffused by Nephril when he calmly came between them. “Well, mine king’s aide? Where dost thou think thou art going, eh? Upon what errand? Be it king’s purpose or something of thine own devising, I wonder.”
Laixac stepped back and raised his voice to his ramshackle army. “I am upon King’s business, and you have no right to delay me. We are lawfully raised and assigned in the defence of our realm and our king, and you know full well against what we now march. After all, you’ve been guilty in the treason that’s brought it about.”
Nephril smiled. “Have we indeed? And thou countenance victory against thine foe with the unwitting help of these poor folk, dost thou, eh?” He swept an arm out towards the rabble. “Think thee to press innocent Dicans into thine own self-aggrandisement, eh, to gain betterment in the eyes of King Namweed at their expense?”
He tutted and turned to the uncertain crowd, staring at them as he drew nearer, whilst still addressing Laixac. “Thou hast no doubt fired them with all manner of deceit and lies, hath duped them into being thine unwitting lambs to the slaughter, eh, Laixac? To do thy dirty work whilst thou keep thine own hands clean.”
Laixac’s face steadily grew redder as his hand grasped at the hilt of his sword and withdrew it a few inches. Pettar’s hand, though, pressed down on Laixac’s.
Nephril was by then before the crowd. “And thou hast told these dutiful Dicans, I am sure, that the army at our gates be the children of Dica, that they be our own descendants come home from exile in Nouwelm. That they have returned from their long estrangement in peace, into our welcoming embrace. That, indeed, great rejoicing be delivered unto the realm as we speak. Thou hast made all this perfectly clear to them already, I suppose?”
Laixac cried out, “You lie! The enemy’s not of Dica, and you know that full well. No children of this realm would’ve cut the Ambecs down as they did. They’re bloodthirsty and intent upon conquering for their own gain. That’s what’s perfectly clear.”
Nephril looked directly into the eyes of the rabble. “A conquering army, eh, as thou would have them? Nay, nay, nothing more than a peaceable deputation waylaid by the Ambecs - and we all know of their nature and quick anger. Envoys of future friendship savagely and pointlessly attacked, without warning, without provocation, forced on the spur of the moment to defend themselves. They were not to know how their superior strength would so lay waste to the Ambecs, would so easily and utterly defeat them. Just as easily as these tricked Dicans here would also be cut down, were they to blunder in so.”
One of the bolder of the crowd suddenly asked, “Lord Nephril? If you would be so kind as to inform us of the truth of it, but has King Namweed really called on us to defend him upon the field, as Master Laixac here says?”
“Nay, good citizen of Dica, he hath not. Thou hast all been called upon an errand of Master Laixac’s own fevered mind, by him alone. He hath no authority, and I should know for I am the king’s Master of Ceremony after all.”
Laixac slipped away from Pettar and came before the crowd, shouting, “Nephril’s a traitor to the king and lies to you all! Can’t you see that? He tries to deflect you from upsetting his plans, plans to have the realm invaded!”
Nephril laughed. “And Guardian Penolith? And her Sentinars, they too are all traitors are they? for they are all in company with our returned kin, celebrating their reunion right now?”
He turned back to the mass and grimly warned, “If thou march upon them, thou wilt also attack the Guardian and her own, for they are all at feast in Uttagate. Thou wilt injure the Certain Power itself in thy folly. How wilt thy families fare under the disgrace of that deed, and in thy absence be thou mortally wounded in the act. How wilt thy family names be received then, eh, when thou art renowned as traitors thine selves? Is that what thou all dost want, well, is it?”
It wasn’t long before grumbling broke out amongst the rabble, the odd curse and decrying comment thrown Laixac’s way until groups of them began to break away. Uncertainly at first, they soon started edging their way back the way they’d come, to their homes, families and friends. Before long, word had spread throughout the length of the column, turning them all back, leaving Laixac fuming as he stood before Nephril and Pettar. He said nothing but only reddened more deeply. His face, though, spoke volumes as it began nervously twitching.
It cautioned Pettar to watch him like a hawk, but what he then saw worried him even more. Laixac’s eyes had become sunken, beadily peering through half closed lids at Nephril, whilst his teeth began to grind behind taut lips. They all three stood like statues as the rabble’s departing noise dwindled to the distance. In the returned silence, Laixac’s anger could almost be heard to simmer.
Laixac sprang at Nephril as he drew his sword, Pettar’s surprised grasp holding only a rent cloak. Haft in hand, blade angled up, Nephril jarred at Laixac’s sudden impact, and felt a rasp go through his rapier hand as the King’s Aide groaned and slumped heavily against him.
It was all over in the blink of an eye, the eerie stillness now holding nothing but Laixac’s partially drawn blade, glinting inches before Nephril’s eyes, his own startled reflection staring back. There was a heavy weight on his hand and a warm dampness along its length. Nephril’s calm, detached and numbed mind only slowly acknowledged the weight to be unbearable, but eventually insisted he step back for a moment, so Laixac could drop heavily to the ground.
Nephril stood, transfixed, staring at his bloodied blade, and then slowly down at Laixac’s prone body. With detached fascination, he watched the oily ooze of blood slowly seep from Laixac’s stomach. Beside him, Pettar also stood frozen, his startled face fixed on the blooded rapier, his mouth agape and his hand still pointlessly clutching at the
rent cloak.
There wasn’t a single sound upon Eastern Street then, not the rustle of breeze-stirred leaves, not the high call of wheeling birds or the rhythmic fall of walking feet, nothing to jolt them from their stunned stillness.
Nephril’s eyes sluggishly stared at the steady scarlet ooze now pooling on Laixac’s belly, below a bright and gay breastplate, whilst his ears strained for sounds of breathing but heard none. His eyes slowly and tentatively slid to Laixac’s own, ones that now stared from a rictus face, unblinkingly into the clear blue sky above. Those eyes bled malevolence and vitriol as copiously as his heart now bled blood. Burning within them, as clear as a remembered reflection, Nephril could see his own guilty face.
At length, sound began to impinge, prodded and worried at Nephril’s ears until meaning slowly dawned and he recognised Pettar’s voice. The sense of the words were slow to come. “I think he’s dead … Nephril? … I think you’ve killed him!”
Nephril found his eyes once more staring, disbelievingly, at his own blade. Without understanding, he watched its darkening red wrap slip to gobbets at its haft, from where they dripped silently to the ground at his feet.
He noted that the scarlet stain was elsewhere; along his sleeve, about his hand, about the hand that still grasped the rapier’s haft, a hand that seemed to be some other’s. His churning stomach sapped his strength, and without thinking, he let go the haft, allowing the rapier to clatter to the ground.
In the shattered silence his legs began to buckle. Nephril faintly felt a firm grasp about his waist as his vision bleached white, as he felt Leiyatel’s cold lips plant a single kiss at his fevered brow.
45 A Gift Returned
Leiyatel's Embrace (Dica Series Book 1) Page 40